until he was forgotten
by sakura aesthetic
Summary: "I don't think I could forget you, even if I wanted to." Hiyori points to his shirt then, her index finger trained on a large bleach spot just below the breastbone. "You're a stain, Yato. You're burned into my memory."


**.**

* * *

 **Until He Was Forgotten**

* * *

 _the choice was once your choosing,_

 _before losing became my loss,_

 _i was there in your forgetting—_

 _until i was forgot_

— _lang leav —_

* * *

"Why are you here, Yato?"

"Because… I need a place to stay."

Just five feet away, Iki Hiyori peers at the god from behind her front door, taking in his disheveled, soaking wet appearance. He groans as she looks him up and down, eyes widening with concern. If there's anything he hates more than the rain, it's seeing that sad, albeit worried, smile tug at her lips—those gentle, affectionate, beautiful lips that have saved his (and Yukine's) life on hundreds, if not thousands, of occasions.

Right now, however, the wind is freezing and his body betrays him. Yato shivers and, though he desperately tries to stop, his teeth start chattering.

"S-Started rain-ing at t-the shrine… didn't h-have anywh-ere else to go."

Hiyori, charitable smile and all, doesn't hesitate to take Yato's hand, ushering him inside. The thermostat is already cranked up to eighty-degrees (far higher than usual) and immediately upon entering, Yato's trembling limbs relax.

"And Yukine… he's not with you, is he?"

"No, he's staying at Kofuku's place until the monsoon season ends," Yato explains. "You know how he feels about thunder."

Hiyori nods in understanding. Though the room is dark, a few flashes of distant lightning illuminate her relieved expression. Yato squeezes Hiyori's hand in reassurance, their fingers unconsciously intertwining as they make their way across the threshold.

"Thank goodness," she breathes softly. "Now, let's get you dried off."

As the two clamber up the stairs in the dark—not without tripping once or twice—Yato absentmindedly glances down at their conjoined hands, wondering how it's possible to feel so incredibly warm, simply by her touch.

When they reach her room (too soon for Yato's liking), she coaxes him to sit on her bed and remove his dripping clothes, scolding him for leaving puddles on the floor. Yato chuckles, of course, but takes heed of her words and strips. Without looking, she tosses him an oversized shirt and a pair of sweats from her closet, saying something about them being two sizes too large, and then disappears into the bathroom. Despite having a door to separate them, an audible clatter pierces the eerie quiet, followed by a slew of curses on Hiyori's side of the wall. Yato stammers a snicker, knowing how much of a klutz she can be.

Gingerly, the god shrugs the articles over his head without complaint. If anything, Yato is grateful for the cotton fabric; his tracksuit itches and often rides up under the armpits.

"Hiyori, can I keep these?" he calls out.

"It's not like I was planning on taking it back," the brunette sighs as she returns, a fluffy towel at hand.

"So, I can keep them?"

He's teasing her now. He knows, however, that he isn't in any position to be, given how much his fingers are fumbling with the buttons below his jaw.

She sighs, yet again, but the irritation is absent. Huffing, she kneels before him, the towel in her lap, and lays her slender fingertips over his still shaking ones.

"Can I help you, Yato? Your hands are trembling," she asks, not a hint of ridicule present.

He gulps, Adam's apple bobbing in sudden nervousness, and then chokes out a hoarse _yes_.

Carefully, she slides the three buttons through their designated holes, not once looking up at the flustered god. He thanks the heavens for this. The last thing he needs right now is to explain how goosebumps have littered his skin despite being the warmest he's ever been. _Too warm_ might be the underlying issue here, but as he smells her familiar shampoo, feels her dainty fingers play with the remaining button just above his collarbone, and watches her tongue dart in and out of her mouth (clearly concentrating on the task before her), Yato doesn't want the heat to disappear.

When she finishes maneuvering the buttons into place, she rewards his trying patience with a laugh and a _you're so red_ , leaving him more embarrassed than before.

"Not my fault," he growls, turning away from her.

"Yato, you need to dry your hair."

Before he can argue, the mattress dips and, with the ease of a mother helping her son, she does the job herself.

"Guess I don't have a choice then," he mumbles, crossing his arms.

Only when he realizes it—how her fingers are carding through his hair—does the god flash a look of surprise. As he turns to Hiyori, a fierce blush adorning his cheeks, she cups his temple and leans closer. Rivulets of water are still dripping from his midnight locks, and all the while, Hiyori, the girl who smells like spring and looks like happiness, is so much closer than she's ever been before.

Yato stops breathing the moment she presses her forehead against his. Relief allows him to exhale, but Disappointment makes the sound strangled. Her mouth is just inches from his, but it's evident, by this point, that she's not going to close the gap, that she's not going to push the boundaries any further. In the Far Shore, there are Borderlines for a reason. In the Near Shore, though no such abilities exist, it is clear that this is Hiyori drawing a borderline of her own. That _this_ , right now, is as close as they'll ever get to crossing the line.

"Yato, you're so warm," she whispers.

He hums in agreement, thinking the same exact thing about her.

"Really warm," she repeats, her voice becoming firm.

"So are you," he murmurs.

"No, Yato, you're burning up!"

Replacing her forehead with a hand, she checks the temperature of his skin. Alarm seizes her face, officially shattering the moment, and with worry returning, she shrieks, "Yato, you have a fever!"

"I do not. Hiyori, I'm fine."

He attempts to lull her back into his lap, his arms, his embrace. He wants to touch her again but he knows his efforts are in vain.

"You're not fine! Your face is all clammy and sweaty."

Experimentally, Yato raises his hand to his forehead, finding that sure enough, it is slick with beads of perspiration.

"Yato, you need to rest," she says, urging him to lie back on her pillows.

With a whine of protest, he eventually collapses against her bed. Once settled, she hovers over him with a damp washcloth, her pink eyes round with panic whilst wiping away the sweat.

"You'll never stop worrying about me, will you?"

At his words, she pauses and, for the first time in weeks, she frowns at Yato.

"Never."

He knows he should retort with something serious as well, but somehow, a sheepish grin emerges. There will always be a silver lining.

"Well, as long as you worry about me, you'll never be able to forget me."

Her beautiful, breathtaking smile returns. It pays in recompense for Yato's guilt and is worth far more than any five yen wish he's ever granted. What he would give to always see it.

"I don't think I could forget you, even if I wanted to."

She points to his shirt then, her index finger trained on a large bleach spot just below the breastbone.

"You're a stain, Yato. You're burned into my memory."

—

Hiyori doesn't have a death wish. Not usually, mind you. She knows where her loyalties lie and at the end of the day, she always locks her window pane, preventing any lurking Phantoms from crawling inside. She claims to never forget Yato, but the words tremble on her lips and, for no apparent reason, this leaves Yato queasy.

 _She doesn't have a death wish_ —he repeats the mantra in his head; yet, with each rendition, he feels more unsteady than the last.

If she didn't have a death wish, then she wouldn't lie to Yato. She would _never_ forget him. If she did, he would have to kill her himself because damn it, she promised him. She promised him she'd always remember.

There are some promises, Yato realizes, however, that cannot be kept.

Even Hiyori can't keep them.

"Yukine…" she drawls from across the table, "you didn't solve this problem using the right solution. You have to redo it."

Yato groans from across the room. Curled in a fetal position, the delivery god is attempting to sleep but, to no avail, his Sekki frustratingly continues to sting the back of his nape. _Those damn math questions._ It's normal by now and though it's uncomfortable, the blight is far less painful than an ablution ritual. Sooner or later, Yato and his Sekki will deal with it. For the time being, however, he is content to watch Yukine work through his frustration, committed to solving the problem before him.

 _He's grown so much… all because of Hiyori._

Biting the end of his pencil, Yukine nods and collects the notebook once more, erasing his errors and starting from scratch.

"Hiyori, what's the formula again?"

"Ah, let me write it down for you," she replies, tearing a loose sheet of paper from her own notebook. Her pencil is just centimeters away from touching the paper before she freezes. The mechanical pencil quivers in her hand; her breath stalls; the room goes silent.

"Hiyori?" Yato shakily whispers, hesitantly crawling to her side.

"I-I can't r-remember the formula…" she croaks.

Yato is starting to panic now but tries his best not to show it. With anxiety mounting, he clasps his hands over hers and watches her grip on the pencil lessen. With a clink, it drops to the table; the pencil lead snaps in half and leaves debris across her notes. At the sound, her face relaxes and she's back, her eyes suddenly less terrified.

"Ah sorry, it just slipped my mind. Here—" she picks up her pencil and jots the formula down, and then slides it to Yukine, "you should use this formula. Plug your solution into this variable. Make sure you subtract it from both sides. And also, always take…"

She rambles on but Yato can't hear her anymore. At the same time, she doesn't so much as glance in the god's direction. She doesn't acknowledge the fact that Yato's hands are still shaking and that, despite remembering the formula now, she had forgotten, even if it had been for a mere second. Both Yato and his Sekki are nervous but choose not to say a word. They simply listen to her voice, that melodic, soothing sound, and for once, they question if there will ever come a time when they'll never hear it's sweet sound again.

Yato steals one last peek at the brunette beside him, gazing at her for minutes on end. He knows he should stop and crawl back to his bed. He knows he should draw the blankets up to his chin and forget what just happened. He knows she would never forget that formula on purpose just to scare him.

As he looks at her, however, she is sweating profusely behind the ear. Her cascading brown hair does well to hide her anxiety, but Yato's eyes don't miss much.

Perhaps, Hiyori does have a death wish after all.

—

"Ne, Yato?"

Her breath ghosts across his skin. A fire is burning and Yato moans in heavenly bliss. Oh, how he welcomes the flames licking him at the neck, searing him above the waist, and spreading to his highest peak.

"Hiyori?" he breathes. He almost says her name again, for it tastes like desire and leaves him yearning for more. For more of her breath; her gentle caresses; her soft moans; her warm body folding and refolding around him like origami—he wants to be wrapped in her arms forever.

"I want to remember this," she whimpers, her back arching into him, a mountain on the brink of an avalanche. "Please, let me remember this."

His mouth presses against hers; the kiss is hard and demanding. She returns with a backhand: her arms tugging him closer and begs for him to sink inside her, to let the fire consume them both.

"You're so warm," he murmurs, the words but a whisper in her ear.

Her fingers, with nowhere to go, find purchase in his hair and beckon him closer. She's raking her nails through his midnight locks again, only this time, there are no Borderlines.

"I won't let you forget me, Hiyori."

She's begging him now, begging for him to help her remember this. The line has been crossed. They have crossed the line _together_ and he refuses to return to the other side alone.

With eyelashes fluttering, he watches _his_ very own paper crane start to fly.

—

Yato decides to take Hiyori to her favorite restaurant. For once, he disrobes the tracksuit (as well as his scarf) and wears a dress suit. As any gentleman should, he offers his arm to Hiyori, a gesture she accepts without hesitation.

"You look really nice, Yato."

Combing back his unruly hair with his free hand, he chuckles at her compliment.

"Not used to seeing me looking so handsome, are you?"

Blushing beet-red, Hiyori denies it, but, of course, does a poor job in doing so. He smiles at her, and then, with ease, lifts her chin so their eyes meet.

"Hiyori, you look beautiful."

At the ripened age of thirty-five—aside from the rare, graying strands of hair, the wrinkles clustered around her eyelids, and the weight gathered at her midsection—she hasn't changed in the slightest. Yato looks at her the same way he's always looked at her: with adoration and, dare he say, love. She laughs: he bears witness to a symphony. She beams: he is underneath the sun's rays. She smiles: he falls for her again, if not the millionth time, since saving his life all those years ago.

He doesn't so much as notice her little blue dress, the turquoise fabric coincidentally matching his tie and eyes, until they sit down.

"What do you want to order?" he asks, unable to look away from the girl, now woman, sitting before him.

He corrects an earlier statement of his—she _has_ changed but in the best way.

For, despite her left hand bearing no ring on her finger, she is his. And in turn, he is hers.

 _They_ have changed.

With what leaves her mouth next, however, will change them yet again. Across the table, her pink eyes have grown wide and with them, a terrible quiver erupts across her lips like an earthquake. She doesn't speak for a moment; Yato sits just five feet away, stunned beyond his wits.

"Hiyori?"

"I d-don't remember what I usually get."

The world stops moving for the god. All he can do is stare at her, unable to comprehend relative time anymore.

Minutes pass before a sudden calm overcomes Hiyori, her body relaxing against the chair. Yato notices but cannot mimic her actions—he's scared now.

 _She forgot again…_

"Let's split the teriyaki chicken. How does miso soup on the side sound?"

The god nods. They order. By the time the food is served, Yato has lost his appetite.

—

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm fine, Yato."

Sitting on the couch is a deflated Hiyori, her expression exhausted. From mundane, trivial bickerings to raging arguments, they've fought before. Once they quarrel, however, everything is settled and not once do they argue about it again. This conversation, on the other hand, they've endured many times. Many _excruciating_ times.

Hiyori says it's all for naught. Yato believes otherwise.

"You're not, Hiyori! You're not fine!" he growls, pacing in front of her.

"I am fine, Yato! There is nothing wrong with me," she shouts whilst standing.

They meet each other with unapologetic opposition. He wants to pummel her stubborn attitude into the ground, whereas she, without holding back, wants to sucker punch his arrogant personality into oblivion.

"Then why do you keep forgetting things?"

"What are you talking about? I'm not forgetting anything!" she shouts, her voice so loud she could burst his eardrums.

Not that he cares about his hearing. He cares about her memory and how she's losing it.

"You forget _everything_! First this morning, you forgot your keys. Then, when helping Yukine tend to Kofuku's shop, you forgot to give the customer their change. And then tonight, I come to find the kitchen sink overflowing with dishes because _someone_ forgot to do them! This is serious, Hiyori. I don't understand why you're laughing—"

"Oh, Yato…"

"No, Hiyori! I'm not in the mood right now. Stop trying to kiss me! I'm serious!"

Unfortunately for him, Hiyori is strong enough to pull him down beside her on the couch. He refuses to look at her, of course, but is stricken when he feels her oh so warm hand caress his cheek, urging him to look at her.

"Yato, have you ever heard of the term _I'm only human_?"

"No. Seriously, I'm not in the mood for this. It's not funny, Hiyori."

"Yato," she snaps, earning his full attention. She very rarely, if ever, uses a stern tone when saying his name. He gawks at her, confused and startled when, with the sincerity of a spirit, she wipes his tears. "I'm only human, Yato. We tend to forget things. We tend to forget where we put our keys. It's completely normal."

"Then… why? Why do you always get nervous about it? You always panic and freeze when you forget things. I just don't understand how—"

"Because," she whispers calmly, "I know that it scares you. And when I do forget, you notice. When you panic, I panic."

Yato sighs heavily as if an enormous weight has left his shoulders. His stress gets the best of him and, with a defeated groan, he falls against her chest. She does nothing to push him away and instead, cradles him close to her beating heart.

"I'm sorry for making you worry," Hiyori breathes.

"I just don't want you to forget me."

At this, he starts to cry and is suddenly grateful for her strong grip, keeping him from breaking down completely.

"I promised you I wouldn't, Yato. I never will."

—

"I'm sorry, Yato-san, but she can't go home."

"What do you mean _she can't go home_? She was perfectly fine yesterday. She's not sick! She doesn't need you or any other doctor to keep her here! I don't unders—"

"Yato, Iki-san has early-onset Alzheimer's."

The god stares, bemused by the man delivering the news. Solemn, brown eyes meet Yato as if apologizing for the diagnosis. Somehow, a sickening smile tugs at Yato's face, his eyes unblinking.

"I-I still don't understand. Alzheimer's… is it like a cold?"

The doctor's small smile wavers. Gripping the clipboard tightly, his knuckles going white, the older man offers a list of symptoms. All Yato focuses on is _she'll lose her memory_ and thinks it's a joke.

"But, it's like her keys… isn't it? She forgets where she puts them, but sooner or later, she finds them."

Alas, the doctor frowns. Yato wonders why the older man isn't providing words of encouragement, why there is a hopeless expression crossing the doctor's face. It dawns on the god, then and there, that no, having Alzheimer's is nothing like losing her keys.

"I thought I was a stain—"

"Pardon?"

Yato's mouth drops into a thin line. His will to smile for her sake has long-since abandoned him. Just as she will, her memory fleeing them both.

"—I was never meant to be erased."

—

With a thud, the door closes behind the god. The sound echoes in the dim room; in consequence, the bed sheets rustle and Hiyori yawns awake. Opening her eyes, it is clear that she is groggy, tired, and lost in the hospital room's white walls that stare back at her. She's been here for a month now and, since becoming an inpatient, Yato hasn't seen her. Not once.

"Why are you here? Are you my doctor?"

Yato shakes his head but smiles.

"Do I know you?"

Without a word, he walks to her side and lies down on the flimsy mattress, ignoring the springs creaking in protest to his weight. Shifting, Yato adjusts them both so his head is resting on her chest, hearing her heartbeat, and waits for her to fall asleep. The medicine has a habit of making Hiyori drowsy. When the room is quiet save for her soft snores, Yato looks at her. He sees nothing but the empty shell of the woman he once loved. He wants to cry, wants to mourn her death, but with the thumping of her pulse, Yato can't bring himself to tears. She's still here, just not here with him.

For now, the warmth is all that remains. Yato realizes that it's more than enough.

He tucks a stray lock of wispy hair behind her ear, and then, with the utmost care, finds solace in the crook of her shoulder. It feels like home.

"I needed a place to stay."


End file.
